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July 25, 2005

I was paying a long-overdue visit to the eternal city and had taken in most of the sites when I realised that the Vatican was still on my list of "things to see".

Never was a big fan of old JP2, the last bloke in charge there, and was pleased to see that this time round my old mate Joe "Ratzo" Ratzinger had been given the nod for the top spot. Now me and Ratzo go way back. He'd be the first to tell you how we both signed up for the Traunstein chapter of the Hitler Youth back in '41. Heck, I even had to lend him my scarf toggle that one time before the big parade. Lousy goosestepper, too, try as he might. Don't know how he became an anti-aircraft gunner though, couldn't hit the side of a synagogue at ten paces.

Now ol' Ratzo was a bit of a lad in his day, but from all accounts has turned into a bit of a geezer. Dresses to the right, if you get my drift. And a bit anti- pretty much anything. You can see that I wwould be keen to see what had become of my erstwhile chum and sparring partner since he taken the oath.

So it was that I ventured out on a sunny Monday afternoon for a little informal chat. I figured that would be the pefect time, he'd have just wrapped up for the week (Sunday is always a big day for men of the cloth) and wouldn't need to start hammering up his next sermon and nut out an order of service until at least Wednesday... so he'd be sure to have a few minutes for an old comrade-at-arms.

So I rock up the the Vatican and ask, "Where's old Ratzo?", little realising they call him Benedict XVI these days. This stony faced padre tells me I'd have to make an appointment with the press office. After I'd come all this way. Sheesh! Not just that, but I'd need to show some press credentials.

Luckily I still carry my Concordia College School Newspaper Reporters Club card. And so it was, the next day, I front up at the Vatican Press office and request a few words with his Holier-than-thou-ness. "The Pope rarely, if ever talks to the press," a rattled press officer tells me.

"How can you tell?" says I, "He's only been in the job a couple of weeks -- hardly time to set any noticeable trends." Disdainfully returning my press card, she informs me that the Pope gives a public audience every Wednesday morning and I'd be welcome to join the faithful.

Imagine my surprise when I show up at 10 in the morning, expecting maybe a couple of people in front of me at the reception desk, to see a heaving throng of 30,000 people, all fumbling with their rosaries and staring straight ahead. Crikey, I can't even see where the bloody queue starts and finishes. Next thing you know, out pops Ratzo's head from a second story window. Looks like he's not even gonna even take a lousy confessional. He mutters something in Latin, crosses himself and then starts backing away from the window. And with a swirl of his cape, he's off. Like a Bride's nightie.

I don't quite know what happened next. But he slunk back inside. Next thing you know the crowd has parted like the Red Sea and a swarm of Swiss guards come storming towards me. Now, someone should have a word with these guys about military guile in general, and camouflage in particular. Unless you wanted to infiltrate a court jester's convention, there's no way you could blend into the background in these fancy togs.

I'll have to talk my way out of this one. "Hey, it's cool. I used to be a guard myself: Concordia College basketball team, 1983. I know all about silly uniforms too."

Not known for their sense of humour, the guards surround me, lances pointing at all the bits that could use them least. Looks like I'm gonna be the swiss cheese at their little ecuemenical fondue party. This is it: only one ball to go before stumps, so I better chance my arm.

"Look! Behind you!" I below and point frantically in a vaguely papal direction.

Not only does the entire Swiss garrison turn as one, but so does the the rest of that 30,000-strong congregation. And before you could rattle off an Ave Maria, I'm out of there like the devil at daybreak.

Well, times change and so, I guess, do earnest young goosesteppers. Still, I managed to raid the offering plate as I rounded the corner out of the Piazza, so the day wasn't a total fizzer. Strangely enough, all I picked up were a couple of raincoat buttons and a parking token.

If I never see another "living sculpture" in my life, I will die a happy man.

Sample A: Legionaire's Disease

Don't get me wrong, I'm a huge fan of buskers and "street entertainment" in general. However, I'm not sure that this fits snugly into that category.

We're going back a few years, but dang it, in my day a modicum -- be it the faintest whiff of a glimmer -- of talent was the general prerequisite for life on the professional entertainment circuit.

Nowadays, in the world's busking centers -- Barcelona, Edinburgh, Montreal, Toowoomba -- A permit is required, guaranteeing you a reserved space on the lucrative, hat-filling footpaths that line the tourist strip. These are selectively apportioned only after a written submission (with video reel), references, monetary deposit and face-to-face interviews. Only the best get through.

So why-oh-fucking-why have the municipal councils of the world given in to these charlatans, these humans-in-statues-clothing who dare to put "entertainer" in the column following "occupation" on their passports?

Bogus Bogart -- No-one's lookin' at you, kid

Where's the talent, ferchrissakes? From my seat in the stands, it looks like all that's required is a rental costume, a can of bronze spray paint, a hat to stick in front of you and an all-abiding urge to do as little as possible.

July 19, 2005

I guess every society has a way of letting out their aggression. For me, its rugby league... for Spaniards it's the bullfight, or "Los Toros". I went along and despite some grandfatherly explanations from the old guy sitting next to me, it was pretty bewildering. I guess it was the frame of reference.

For a start there's the bull, weighing in at about the same as a rugby league forward pack. And from my vantage point in the stands, carrying pretty much the same IQ.

Then there's the toreros: prancing and preening in there tight-fitting gold lame togs and their pink capes. In many ways like the backline of a rugby league team: all hairdos, nifty moves and fancy duds.

As for the format of the fight itself, it can be divided in roughly five stanzas.

First Stanza: The traditional softening-up period.Just as in a good game of rugby league, the comabtants face each other off and go charging in with all the fury they can muster. In this case, five or six torreros, aggravate the bull with a lot of slick cape twirling, only to skeedaddle behind the solid wooden barriers whenever he comes within a bull's roar. No real physical damage ensues to either party, but the level of animosity builds nicely.

Part Two: bringing in the cavalry.Again, just like a league match, the heavy hits usually happen up front and early as the bigger members of the forward pack go for bustling forays up the center. In a bullfight, out come the armoured drafthourses and blokes (picadors) with sharp lances. The horses are blindfolded and for good reason -- they'd be out of the ring and into the bleaches like a shot if they saw what was charging at them.

At this point we see a lot of bull-on-horse action. WIth the forequarters of the bull being ravaged repeatedly with the lance. All the better for the torreros in round 3.

Third Stanza: the shoulder charge.By now the cavalry has all but left the arena and the matador poises himself with two sharp spikes which he drives into the already bleeding shoulders of the bull. He still has his torrero buddies around to distract the bull should he get into any groin-on-horn mischief. In a rugby league game, they'd be telling the forwards on the bench to start limbering up. Unfortunately, bulls don't have a fresh set of reserves on the sideline

All this shoulder spiking just weakens the bull more. All the better for the matador in round 4.

Fourth Stanza: Mano a mano -- bull versus beastBy now the support torreros are sucking down Spanish Gatorade on the sidelines. Its just the matador and the bull. Already hobbling, gasping for air and looking for the trainers to run on with the magic sponge, the bull's game is all but decided. The matador is just toying with him now. A lot of sylised flurries with the cape while the befuddled bull keeps lunging. Cue to roars from the crowd every time it sweeps past the cape.

Fifth Stanza: The money shotAt last the bull, depleted of energy (just like Greg Dowling after the first fifteen minutes of every game), can't give a rat's arse about chasing no stupid cape no more. It's time for bed. The matador looking down his sword like a barrel of a gun, gives the final thrust -- throught the pectorals and into the heart -- and the once mighty bull, staggers, sways and drops to the sand.

July 11, 2005

July 08, 2005

Well, if you're a skinflint like me, ye can take the high road -- I'll be taking the low road. I'll even take the muddy ditch adjacent to the low road if it can save me a few cents. My bank account suffers enough rude shocks as it is. This means opting for supermarket sandwiches over opulent riverside dinners and for the most part, youth hostels rather than pensions or hotels... especially if you´re travelling alone.

Now, don't get me wrong: hostels are a great way to meet fellow travellers and pick up useful tips for the road ahead. For instance, in Madrid, I shared a dorm with three wonderful young things with exemplary personal hygeine habits and sane sleeping hours who were also full of vitality and laughter and keen to explore the ancient city.

Experiences such as these are, sadly, on the wane. And to my chagrin I have also discovered that hostels are also a great way to learn to despise your fellow man and pick up unwanted entomological companions for the road. In San Sebastian, north-eastern Spain, I scored something of a trifecta.

Number one was a talker. Day or night, asleep or awake, it didn't really matter. Daytime provided endless hours of moaning about how nothing here is as good as it is at home (Newcastle, England). And nighttime brought out the demons who would erratically and abruptly (but very regularly) come howling from her dreams, jibbering and jabbering in devilish tongues and thrashing limbs and then subsiding again into her troubled psyche.

Number two (boyfriend of number one) was a snorer, chainsaw variety. He was completely oblivious to his ladylove's nightmares, and to his own glotus-shredding rumbling, happily slumbering from dawn til dusk. Loud, rasping, constant and completely impervious to suggestions, prods and left-hooks alike.

Number three was a stinker, with foot odour to wake the dead. I suspect this guy must have grown accustomed to his own stench over the ensuing decade since his last contact with soap. As he snuck into the room after lights out, a faint glowing vapour seemed to follow him. My first whiff of his grime-caked feet snapped me into full consciousness like a dose of smelling salts. I hadn't woken dry retching like that since the cat pissed on the hotplate.

And I spent the rest of the evening spasming in semi-conscious sensual agony, trying to remember what it was like to sleep in a nice clean bed... in a quiet room of my own... with big fluffy pillows...

If I were to believe everything anyone ever told me about Paris, I probably wouldn't have gone: Cold, miserable, unpredicatable weather; rude, obnoxious locals; smelly and land-mined with dog turds...

All I can say is that I was thoroughly disappointed by the stereotypes. Brilliant, glorious sunshine for the entire week. Damnably hot, by Gad, if the truth be told. Lovely, friendly, helpful people (especially my wonderful hosts Emma and Laurent). And my trusty Blundstones went unbesmirched: no more dog shit than any other city -- less, in fact than Brisbane, Bangkok, Berlin... I could go on.

So I spent the week waiting, almost willing something to bugger it all up. Packing my unweildy umbrella and raincoat, wherever I went... just in case. Tensed like a coiled spring to counterattack an hint of an arrogant shrug or roll of the eyes or muttered gallic oath. And carefuly eyeballing every flagstone, artfully dodging anything so much resembling a Malteser.

But when I wasn't paranoically watching the cloudless skies, garcons' gestures or concrete curbing, I was bedazzled by the wealth of art and architecture. The Musee D'Orsay being probably the pick of a very fine bunch. A week of wonder. A week of pleasant surprises round every corner.

July 06, 2005

Thanks to everyone who dropped by with there favourite words. Some real chestnuts there. I think I would just like to roll naked in all them them, but being a high-stakes, winner-takes-all contest, there had to be just one.

THE WINNERWhy, its "haberdashery" of course! A wonderful, quaint, somewhat old-world term to describe the premisis of either a gentlemen´s outfitter or a purveyor of tailoring materials. In the between-war years, no self-respecting department store or high street would have been without one.

And is a lovely, malleable 5-syllable number as well. Special thanks to Dave Whittle down in Sydney for that one. Your drawing is in the mail... and will be posted on this site soon.

2. The "most spurious word" award:Goes to John Mallen for "cur". We know that your entry was a complete diddle. But we laughed all the same.

3. The "most curious word" award:Goes to Mark Wiebusch for "crampon". I love 'em when they're loaded with double meanings. And I love 'em even more when those double meanings are vaguely sexual or scatalogical. And I love 'em the most when they actually have utterly mundane, work-a-day meanings.

4. The "why use a one syllable word when there´s an even better 4-syllable one" award:Goes to my brother Pete for "dirigible". I agree. Blimp just leaves me limp.

5. The "why not go for 7 syllables?" award:Bill Lindsay's hierarchy-topping "plenipotentiary". I want that on my business card.

6. The "innaugural Rex Mossop matching trophy and barbeque set for the most visceral word" award:I couldn't go past Pete Wildemuth's, gloriously bone-rattling "Sironen". Especially when bellowed at full volume with a hearty chuckle beforehand, and delivered at the moment he pounds those mighty knees and busts through the first line of defenders... There should be a Sironen class of Tank or armour-shredding missile or brand of wrecking ball.

7. The "effective invective" awardThough outside the bounds of the orginal terms and conditions, "fuckwit" does the trick every time, without a hint of a shadow of a doubt. Thanks Mallen.

8. Most "eliocephalocratic attempt at a word" award.Despite the competition having nothing to due with expanding the vocubulary, I dips me lid to "eliocephalocratic", even if my equally eliocephalocratic brother James did invent it.

9. The "best almost-a-word word" award:Harley Sparke for "enanthema". Is it an athem? Or an enema? Or an anthem to an enema? Or is such analysis completey anathema to the purpose of this contest?

10. The "Why don't we have that in English?" awardI tried to keep it all within the already burgeoning confines of the Englsh language. But when a blouse-buster like "soutien-gorge" rears its rather attractive head from the enemy trenches, I say let's take a few prisoners! Thanks Emma.

THE DISHONOURABLE MENTIONS1. Quite easily, "mucus" (thanks Hugo Byrne) drew the most groans from the crowd. Sometimes the sound and the meaning get inextricably intermingled.

2. Jerry Keim for "arsewipe". Functional, yes. Beautiful, no.

3. Nicchia Schutt for "pedagogy". If it's not already a crime, it should be.

4."Scrofulous" (my brother James again). I don't even want to look that one up.

July 04, 2005

Not having a camera for my advance on Berlin via Munich, Wurzberg, Nuremberg, Wittenburg and all the other burgs along the way, you´ll just have to trust me on this one.

Munich: Spent most of the time moping about the loss of my camera and all the pictures that went with it. Also discovered the best beer I have tasted... ever: Augustiner, brewed by the monks of the same order. Crisp, clean, full flavoured, slightly sweet and lightlly aerated. Perfection!

Wurzberg: Caught up with my friend, O, from Udon Thani in Thailand. Spent the afternoon eating painfully mild Tom Yam and then watching the night fall while getting rolling drunk on the castled river bank of the Main. And fall it did. As did I

Nuremberg: Caught up with Karen Chong (an old Singapore friend) and her family. They arranged lodiging for me in the keep of the Castle in the historic old town (now converted to a boisterous youth hostel). Great to catch up with her, husband, Wolf (by name, not nature) and Felix, their mischievous little 2 year old.

Wittenberg: Only stopped here due to a rare stuff up from Deutsche Bahn. And having been brow-beaten for 17 years by every just about fanatical Lutheran on the planet, couldn´t pass by without checking out the church where Luther kick-started the reformation by nailing his 95 theses to the church door. I even got to sleep in the church (where the adjoining abbey has been converted to a youth hostel).

Berlin: Running terribly late for a pre-booked ticket to Paris, I only stopped for mere hours here. But long enough to do some laundry and have my spectacles stolen. And to realise it´s worth another more prolonged visit. I left on the night train with only a hazy (literally) memory of the place. I hope the thief has the same prescription as me.